Curtains
by fluffily
Summary: His family is the last thing he thinks of, his eyes shifting shut as darkness devours his consciousness and leaves him alone and red on blue. Roy knows it, feels vengeance and regret in equal parts when he sees the picture, red on white and his wife's face smiling up at the colonel. He grieves, and he envies. He doesn't know – won't know for some time yet – how fitting that is.


**This is one of the fanfics written for the trope_bingo contest/community on dreamwidth. It's also posted to my AO3 account and to the trope_bingo collection on there. The prompt/trope was "curtainfic," which, if you don't know, generally consists of fluffy domestic scenes between two characters in a pairing - often, shopping for curtains. This isn't fluffy, because I played with this trope until it was barely the trope any more. ;) I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. (Also, and I don't know why this is, FF will _not _keep the spaces I insert between sections of any story. The only way to keep them is to put all that nonsense in parenthesis. Sorry - I know it looks messy, but I like my spaces.)**

* * *

_His family is the last thing he thinks of, his eyes shifting shut as darkness devours his consciousness and leaves him alone and red on blue. Roy knows it, feels vengeance and regret in equal parts when he sees the picture, red on white and his wife's face smiling up at the colonel. He grieves, and he envies. He doesn't know – won't know for some time yet – how fitting that is._

(*~~~~~*)

"Come on, Roy. You'll never be able to get yourself a woman if you don't put a little more effort into how you dress!"

Mustang shoves his hands into the pockets of his civilian jacket and glares at his friend. "Last time I checked, I wasn't having any trouble finding dates." It's true, of course; Mustang has the rank and the looks to woo almost any woman, and he's certainly had his fun with any number of soft-lipped beauties. He knows that that's not quite what Maes is getting at – that the problem isn't his lack of popularity, but his lack of commitment – but he can't see the good in discussing the impossible.

It's not that he has so much fun with his dates that he can't settle for just one. It's the opposite, actually, and he hazards a quick glance at the lieutenant colonel as he adds, "As long as I wear decent clothes, it doesn't matter if they're a little plain. Besides, I spend so much time in that damned uniform, anyway."

Hughes laughs, and Mustang can't help but smile along with his jovial companion. "Well, yeah, but – plain? It's more like you're trying too hard, if you ask me!" Hughes' glasses flash as a beam of sunlight finds its way to the smooth surface, and Roy shakes his head amusedly at the casual bluntness.

"If it's not plain, and you can't deny that it looks fine, where exactly is the problem?" The colonel is well-known, in fact, for both his good looks _and _his classy style. A born womanizer – it's a part of the reputation he works hard to maintain, and he lives up to it well.

And so Hughes' argument is overturned like that. Of course, he may have never had a chance to begin with – and maybe the fact that Mustang chose to avoid the main issue at hand is no surprise – but it's all good. Central's been crazy lately, and if he's stressed out and overworked, he can only imagine what the colonel must be going through; a little banter back and forth about silly things can't possibly be any worse. It's time to change the subject, though, so he grins and opens up the first topic that comes to mind. "So, what color do you think I should buy?"

"Color?" Mustang blinks once, then brings a hand to his chin in a classic expression of thoughtfulness. "Let's see… wouldn't black be fine?" He's grown accustomed, after many years, to conversations like these, to questions that remind him of the futility of his one-sided attraction. That's why he can joke about it all so naturally. He's ambitious, so he has to hide more than just his feelings to achieve his other goals. It's painful, but not impossible – not even difficult, really, in a practical sense.

"Black?! How could I possibly bring home a set of black curtains to Gracia? Does anyone even sell things like that?" Hughes uses emphatic hand gestures and raises his voice slightly in one of his oh-so-characteristic overreactions. "I mean, should I look for something with a cooler tone, or something warm? I don't think orange would work, but you never know, I could get it home and – "

"I got it, I got it," Roy says quickly. Hughes knows he's not serious, but this is just how he is. He's warmer than anyone else Roy has ever known, more expressive and certainly more outgoing. He's accommodating and hospitable and he was the first to offer his support to Roy during the war, back when he gazed up at the figure of a great man and decided that he would claim the title of führer.

Amestris is not a country that tolerates feelings like Roy's, the feelings of one man for another. Not if those feelings can be described as love – not if he can look at Hughes and want his warmth, his support, and his sharp, intelligent eyes. Not if he can wish, in a buried-deep-within kind of way, that he and Hughes were out shopping for curtains to adorn the windows of their own house.

"How about this place?" Hughes suggests, indicating a small shop at the edge of the cobble-stone street.

"Think they'll have finished products?"

"It's fine," Hughes dismisses Roy's question without concern. "I wouldn't mind coming by to pick it up later if the color works."

The colonel raises an eyebrow. "Oh? I've gotta say, Hughes, the role of family man suits you to a 'T.'"

(*~~~~~*)

_He hates himself for saying what he did, for assuming that he had all the time in the world to set it right. The funeral never ends for him; he can hear the clatter of dirt on wood and the scrape of shovels against dry earth echoing through every waking second thereafter._

_It was Hughes who once told him to value his subordinates, so he hides his resentment. He can't let them see him wavering. Hawkeye he lets in, if only because he's just not as strong as he needs to be, if only because she's almost as close to him as Hughes was. He pretends in front of everyone else, though, shows only his usual aloofness, and they suspect nothing. They never did, and that's how it should be. It's less painful, less complicated._

_But even the sunlight has a reddish tint to it from that day on, from the moment he sees the blood-stained phone booth on into the far-off future._

(*~~~~~*)

The shop inside is warm and welcoming – the very picture of a family-run business in all its quaintness. The door is a little small, and the overeager Hughes winds up bumping into Mustang on the way in. The colonel can't help the way his blood runs through his veins even if he can control the rest of his reactions, so he has to hope that neither the shopkeeper nor Hughes himself notices the way color rushes to his cheeks at the slight touch. He's been thinking too much on this, clearly, so it's not taking much to fluster him.

"Don't just stand there all day, Roy!" Hughes calls, and it's honestly ridiculous how excited this man is about such a mundane little errand.

Well, perhaps soldiers need things like this from time to time. Relaxation can be a bit hard to come by, even if the most intense action they get to see is behind a desk piled high with papers. Mustang gazes at his surroundings as the blush fades from his countenance. "Hughes. What color are your walls, anyway?"

The lieutenant colonel pauses in the middle of inspecting a bundle of blue fabrics. "Hmm… I think it was beige…?"

Roy sighs, incredulous. "You honestly have no idea, do you?"

"Well, no," Hughes admits, "but how hard could it be to find something that works?"

"What exactly did you need me to come along for?" Mustang snaps. This guy's actually very sharp-witted, but Roy sometimes can't help but wonder. "My ideas about what 'works' will be worth even less than yours if you can't give me anything to go on."

"Now, now, don't be like that, Roy!" Hughes says jovially. "If I hadn't invited you along, you'd have wasted your day off doing something completely non-productive!"

"This isn't going to be any more productive than going on a date or something," Mustang mutters. For all anyone around him knows, he's just talking about a date with one of his many admirers. Even he's not really sure if he's imagining something different; after all, he's perfectly aware that, if he's really that desperate, he can damn well fantasize as much as he wants about the time he's currently spending with his friend.

Hughes ignores the comment, taking it as proof that Mustang's mood is already improving. It is, and the colonel gives up on trying to figure his way through these things. He nods at the ignored cashier and then joins Maes in front of another display – this one laden with warmer colors, reds and oranges and yellows so light that they're almost white.

"Shouldn't you look for something a little more… neutral?" Roy suggests, startling Hughes out of his own, curtain-filled reverie.

"Ah – you might have a point… But what's neutral, exactly? Blue?"

Roy considers this for a moment and realizes that he's not entirely sure, either. He's heard people talk about 'neutral' colors before, of course, but his knowledge of what fits that definition is, admittedly, pretty vague. All he's actually sure of is that those sorts of colors are supposed to go with nearly everything without attracting much attention – and that's more than most men would know.

The cashier – a demure young woman with sumptuous brown hair and a firm waist – notices the two men's confusion and makes her way around the front counter with a touch of amusement shining in her blue eyes. "Um… Could I perhaps offer you both some help?" she asks lightly.

Mustang turns to her with a smile that is almost amorous and says, "I think you can, in fact." He nods pointedly at his companion and says, "This guy's looking for a new set of curtains – something… neutral, maybe?"

Hughes smiles and nods politely at the woman. She's beautiful, Mustang notices, and probably only a year or two younger than them. She has all the charm of a princess without the presumptuousness, too, and she's just shy enough to be cute without seeming too breakable. A very desirable girl, in all, and just one of the many types that Mustang is likely to pursue – even if he does feel nothing terribly deep for any of them. In fact, if he had to name his favorite 'type' of woman, he'd probably have to admit to preferring those like Hawkeye – the strong-willed, the unyielding.

Still, it's a little galling. He looks over at Hughes – hoping, somewhere deep within the more malicious part of him, that he'll be able to see some small hint of interest in the man's eyes. There's nothing, though – no touch of lust or recognition of the beauty before him. He's perfectly cordial – beyond cordial, in fact, because that's the sort of person he is – but he really and truly has eyes only for his wife.

But_ that_ isn't what's galling. No, what really bothers Mustang is the fact that he has to look for something like that. He can't be content with just enjoying the golden hue of his friend's eyes, the way his glasses suit him so well, the intelligent aura he has about him. No, he has to look for holes in the barrier between them, has to search, even unconsciously, for the hope that isn't there.

He shouldn't want to see Hughes or Gracia hurt.

And he shouldn't keep returning to these thoughts.

(*~~~~~*)

_He can't face Gracia for the longest time. He saw her shaking, hand smothering short sobs as her daughter asked innocent questions. Elicia's cries filling the air, breaking the somber silence with the heart-shattering worries of a child. That little girl is too naïve, too accustomed to the solidarity of her father and his work. She'll face hard times – both of them will – loneliness and the realization that the world isn't as accommodating as once it seemed. She'll understand death a little more now, come to terms with it and then –_

_And then she might even forget her father. A shadow, a gentle touch, maybe, a dusty picture frame. The pain of loss, and then she'll grow older and her early memories will fade until the man she grieves is nothing more than a ghost in her heart. A lonelier thing, then, for Hughes' widow. She, like Mustang, like all the other adults, will remember ever moment as if it's been cut from crystal._

_Is that merciful or cruel? Roy's not sure, but he almost wishes that he might at least forget the pain. He wants to forget it so much that it clings to him and becomes his obsession._

(*~~~~~*)

The woman asks for more information about the walls of Hughes' house, and his answer is the same as before – beige, he thinks, but he's not sure.

"Oh! Well, that's actually a neutral color, too."

"Would it be too plain to use another… 'neutral' color, then?" Hughes' question sounds so serious it's almost tragic, but he's clearly at a bit of a loss. Mustang briefly wonders what ever possessed Gracia to send her husband out on this kind of errand, of all things.

"Not at all! If you're worried, though, lighter shades of green have been quite popular lately. They're still fairly close to neutral, and I'm sure that your wife would enjoy something a bit trendy."

"Hm… Well, it would probably look all right with most of the furniture…" Hughes looks deep in thought, brow creased as he considers his options.

Mustang smirks and decides to lend the poor guy a hand. "How about this one?" He points to a particular set, one with a color reminiscent of fragrant grass on a warm spring day.

The cashier claps her hands together excitedly. "That's exactly what I was just talking about! You must have a good eye for things like this, sir!"

Mustang would normally have taken this opportunity to hit on the girl in front of him, but he doesn't. He doesn't have the heart to try, and he's doing enough acting as it is. He responds, sure, but the joke is detached, and Hughes shoots him a curious look when the woman looks away.

(*~~~~~*)

_It's almost comical, the way Roy can't stand to mess with his own curtains for a long time after Hughes' death. He leaves them open, lets that red sunlight filter into his apartment and pale into moonlight every night. He doesn't go near any of the bars where he and Hughes used to drink on days off, and he carefully avoids the part of town where they had their fateful exchange that day._

_At first, he punishes himself with work – stops taking naps and outside phone calls at his desk, startles Hawkeye with the amount of work that he's capable of finishing when he puts his mind to it. When that doesn't work, he slacks off worse than ever, has to deal with being chewed out by his lieutenant before things go too far. He stabilizes, eventually, and things seem back to normal._

_But he doesn't touch those slate-gray curtains – not once, not for months and months and months to come._

(*~~~~~*)

The purchase is made, and yes, he's acting – acting a lot, every inflection and every laugh a lie and a knife that digs into his resistance. It's worse than usual, no doubt about it, but that's because he's had to face the fact more clearly than ever that Hughes is not his, that he's a part of this domestic world just as much – if not more – than he is a part of the dangerous world that Roy inhabits alone.

"Hughes," he says, the name heavy on his lips. He sounds altogether too serious, he knows, and he casually avoids looking in Maes' general direction as they wave through the window at the cashier and then proceed on down the street.

"Hm? What's up?" A brown paper bag, heavy with folded fabric, crinkles loudly as the lieutenant colonel shifts it to his other side.

"The truth is, I… for a long time…"Mustang swallows, takes a deep breath, and tries, "I've known you for a long time."

"…And?" It's not meant to sound harsh – just confused, because Mustang's words almost _sound_ like a love confession and that's got to be wrong. But the statement is such an obvious one that it could only speak of girlish hesitation, of dangerous devotion and weighty declarations yet to be made.

"Have you ever thought of me as anything more than a friend?"

Maes slows to a stop in the middle of the street. Clouds are beginning to gather overhead, and people are finding their ways into houses and hotels in anticipation of the coming storm; they tend to strike quickly around here, after all. "Roy… What are you saying? You're…" An important friend, a comrade. But that's not what the question implies, and the colonel has to know that, too. This kind of joke isn't funny, and it's even less funny if the man is serious.

"Just answer the question," Mustang demands, and Hughes shakes his head incredulously.

"Do you feel alright?" he asks, because Roy _simply can't_ be serious.

"No," Mustang laughs bitterly as a few drops of rain slip, swollen and cool, from the gray ceiling overhead. "No, I'm not." He'll work this out later, fix the mess he's about to make. He's good at that – cleaning up messes is a part of his job, after all. He'll consider this a sort of rough therapy, something to force those persistent feelings away.

"You do know what you're saying, right?" It's a last chance, Hughes looking at him concernedly as that old longing bubbles up in him again.

"Yeah," and Mustang's not really surprised when his friend lights into him so hard that he stumbles back and loses his balance. His vision fails him for a moment, and the last thing he sees of Hughes after that is his back as he hurries through a sudden downpour on his way back home to see his wife and child.

(*~~~~~*)

_Why the hell does he tell himself that things can just go on as usual? Why the hell does Hughes risk his life – and lose it – to help him, the bastard who would say something so selfish? He never understands, doesn't know if he really wants to. He'll blame it all on the murderer, on that and on something intangible and unseen. He can't ever really attain revenge, but he'll try._

_And that doesn't mean destroying himself, though maybe it's his fault more than anyone else's. It means forcing himself to live on through the suffering, means moving on and finding someone else and feeling like a traitor for it._

(***)

"_I wonder if they looked alright, after all," Mustang murmurs abstractly on another rainy day some months later._

"_Sir?" Hawkeye's response is just like her – formal, but genuinely concerned. It's not hard to imagine loving her. No – maybe he doesn't even have to rely on his imagination any more._

"_It's nothing," he sighs, and that question, too, goes unanswered._


End file.
